


soldiers tonight

by joisattempting



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, John is scared, Late at Night, M/M, Military Backstory, Psychological Trauma, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Thunder and Lightning, Thunderstorms, can you tell i can't fuckin tag, god i love these two sm, holy shit i'm kinda terrified, kinda??, sorry to all the people i bothered about how hard i found this ik i'm annoying, this had no business being as difficult as it was, this took fucking forever, uhhh idk when this is set so you'll have to use your ✨imagination✨
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24812299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joisattempting/pseuds/joisattempting
Summary: a thunderstorm brings back bad memories for john.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	soldiers tonight

**Author's Note:**

> okay i know this isn't falsettos content but i wanted to try something new! i watched sherlock recently and it quickly became one of my favourite shows. i'll admit i was iffy about posting this, and lowkey terrified to write it, mostly out of fear of getting the characterisation wrong, this being a new fandom for me and all. this is my first attempt at writing anything for sherlock, so please don't yell at me i'm sensitive 😔✌️. i'll shut up now, i hope you enjoy it! i sort of stole the title from TFP, because they kept saying 'soldiers today' and i figured i'd change it a bit to make it fit this a little better. shoutout to my very good friends palak and helen, who i annoyed endlessly throughout the writing process, and who let me yell about my feelings about this show kdhskdh. i love you both!!
> 
> before i go, i just wanted to say to please keep signing petitions and donating time, money, or whatever you can spare that would help the blm movement!! don't stop talking about it or raising awareness, we have to keep fighting until there is change in the system. i'm not black, nor am i american, but i see you and i stand with you. no justice no peace. 
> 
> uhhh i hope this isn't too shit? comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, they make me insanely happy :D
> 
> tw : scars, blood, war, gunshots, gunshot wounds, thunderstorms

Rain thundered onto the large windowpanes of 221B, miniscule water droplets showering every rooftop, flowerbed, park, and street. Amidst the cacophonous din of water against the grimy glass, thunder clapped with intermittent, yet resounding anger. Glancing over at the bedside alarm clock that a certain boisterous consulting detective had selected, with the glaring crimson numbers he despised with a fiery passion, John blew out a fractured, shaky sigh as he dragged two visibly-trembling hands down his flushed face. The time read one forty-seven AM. It felt as though the numbers had remained the same for the last hour, or at least it appeared that way to the distressed army doctor. It was common knowledge that John Watson hated thunderstorms. Absolutely loathed the bastards. But he’d painstakingly ensured that everyone, including the insufferable, yet annoyingly-irresistible Sherlock Holmes, lived in blissful ignorance of the logistics and complexities behind the all-too-familiar feeling of consternation and anxiety he felt in the bottommost pit of his stomach whenever he heard the occasional splenetic rumbles as picked at his pitiful packed lunch on break at the surgery, or cause him to very nearly leap three feet into the air as he typed out a case for the blog, his curly-haired boyfriend’s childish whines about his overwhelming boredom proving to be surprisingly soothing background noise. Speaking of Sherlock, he was an insanely light sleeper. John would have to keep his sobs to a minimum. 

John’s shoulders shook as he attempted to steady his uneven breathing, drawing his knees up to his chest. He attempted to count the seconds between the unanticipated claps of thunder, flinching as each one only triggered more traumatic memories of bloodshed, blurriness, and screaming. Straw-coloured hair was plastered to his forehead with sticky perspiration. The horrid military haircut that made him closely resemble a sheep that’d been shorn by a two-year-old. Sherlock had made a point of jeering at it every morning, when the poorly-cut shorter strands of his blond bedhead stuck out as the doctor stumbled sleepily to the kitchen to brew tea and make toast for him and his flatmate. As a result, he’d been involuntarily peer-pressured into growing it out some. His quiff was noticeably taller, and long gone were the days of stray wisps refusing to remain flat regardless of how much gel he smothered into his hair. Without him even noticing, John’s hand made its way to his battered left shoulder, one finger tracing the faint, pink scar in the spot where the gun had got him. He had many scars. Not only the physical ones that could be located in various places on his frame (that had become decidedly softer since his dark years of service, despite how much he steadfastly denied it), but psychological ones too. The thing he remembered most about the disturbing day, aside from the blood streaming like the raindrops outside onto his uniform and his body underneath it, was the noise. The shot was loud enough to turn the head of nearly every soldier on the battlefield, sonorous and resonant as it reverberated across the barren land they fought on. It rang in a silent, pained John’s ears as people clamoured and bustled around him, confused and alarmed babble breaking out amongst the others. It rang in his ears for the remainder of that day, and the next one, and the one after that. 

Another clap. Purely on reflex, John clutched his shoulder, his posture worsening as he slumped further forward. He hissed quietly, not bothering to scrub at the hot tears rolling down his freckled face. Shaking fingers tracing and retracing the curved, serpentine scar etched into his shoulderblade, he did his best to ignore the pounding in his head that had come of mentally replaying the harrowing noise of the gunshot every time he heard a crash in the murky, depressed sky. He balled up his free hand, biting down on it as hard as he could; Sherlock was bound to stir if he continued sobbing, and then he’d never hear the end of it. It was alright - the storm would pass soon, and then he could finally get the shuteye he longed for. 

One more peep at the clock. One forty-nine. Sweet Jesus, this was going to be a long night. 

“John?” a rumbling, husky voice mumbled. 

Ah, fuck. 

“What are you doing awake? It’s nearly two,” Sherlock pressed, sitting up slowly and shaking his dark curls from his eyes. In spite of himself, John smiled faintly. He couldn’t help but take in his boyfriend’s wild bedhead, sticking out at every angle in the most flattering manner. He could almost laugh, if it weren’t for the stern, grave, unfathomable expression painted on Sherlock’s thin face. 

For a brief and fleeting moment, there was silence so thick, it was nearly tangible. Neither man could tell you how long they sat there, ogling at one another. Steely, inquisitive cerulean met scarred and bloodshot grey, the former flickering with curiosity, which John knew meant that he was making one of his famous deductions. It wouldn’t be difficult, exactly, for him to conclude that his blond-haired, stocky boyfriend had been crying. However, John felt a burning sensation of dread creep into his stomach when he realised that he’d be confronted about his traumas, his burdens that he’d much rather keep a plaguing secret. He wouldn’t put it past Sherlock to already know about the reason behind his irrational fear of sudden loud noises, of course he didn’t, but the doctor certainly didn’t want to talk further on the matter. 

“You’re scared,” Sherlock said at length, his voice low. The pair heard another crash outside, and any attempts at discretion on John’s part when he flinched and dug his fingers into his striped pajama shirt didn’t go unnoticed by the taller, lankier man. “Of the thunderstorm,”

“What? ‘Course I’m not-” was the soldier’s futile attempt at covering for himself. 

“Don’t try and cover for yourself, John, you know I can see through you like you’re transparent,” Sherlock interjected. “Your eyes are red and your face is puffy, clearly indicating that you’ve been crying. Your knuckles are slightly shinier than the rest of your hand - slight traces of saliva, as well as tiny notches. You put your fist in your mouth so I wouldn’t hear you. The sheets are wrinkled and the pillow’s been turned over more than once - it’s clear you couldn’t fall asleep. Why? Well, you’re clutching your left shoulder, where you were shot in Afghanistan. If we take logic and probability into consideration, you’re most likely upset about something to do with your time in service. But what? I know you’re particularly impartial to loud noises, as well as the fact that you deeply despise thunderstorms. What’s something related to your time in service that involves loud noises? The sound of gunshots. The thunder reminds you of the day you got shot. Really, John, it’s quite simple,”

“Well, it’s not my fault I have fears, I’m not a bloody sociopath,” John seethed, snivelling. 

“You’re a soldier, John. Of course the thunder scares you. Your mind may be ordinary, but it’s not idiotic,”

The doctor quirked an eyebrow, wiping his wet knuckle on his checkered, grey pajama bottoms. “Wait… so you don’t think I’m stupid?”

“No. That’s stupid,”

They both chuckled at that, and John hardly noticed the next clash of thunder. 

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, patting the empty space beside him on the bed. “Back to bed, then? You can keep close if you’re scared,” 

The smaller man’s features creased into a relieved smile as he lay close to his lover. “Alright,” he said, burying himself in Sherlock’s bony side and allowing his unkempt, sandy hair to be toyed with. He felt a kiss being pressed to the top of his head, and his contented grin only broadened. “‘Night, Sherlock,” he mumbled, already drifting into slumber as he wrapped his arms protectively around him. 

Not one peep could be heard from the wounded soldier that cuddled close to the detective for the rest of the night. 

  
  
  


_ fin.  _


End file.
